


Captivity in a Cottage

by WitchFlame (RachelMcN)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Demon Summoning, Gen, Summoning, Summoning Circles, Witchcraft, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:26:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23950780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RachelMcN/pseuds/WitchFlame
Summary: Crowley paces, twitching. Nearby, the witch crafts her poultice, humming lowly. The scent of various herbs pollute the home. It puts him in mind of bubbling soups, of searing meats and sprinkled seasonings. He flicks his tongue irritably, listing the scents in his mind, telling himself to avoid such reminders in the near future.Stone grinds as she works her mortar and pestle. He sneezes. She tuts lowly, the only sign she even remembers his presence. He hisses, circling his given ground, craning to see what sliver of outside life is available to him. A blackbird wings by the window, a flicker of feathers. He drops back to his heels and sighs.The days pass quietly.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 98





	Captivity in a Cottage

Crowley paces, twitching. Nearby, the witch crafts her poultice, humming lowly. The scent of various herbs pollute the home. It puts him in mind of bubbling soups, of searing meats and sprinkled seasonings. He flicks his tongue irritably, listing the scents in his mind, telling himself to avoid such reminders in the near future. 

Stone grinds as she works her mortar and pestle. He sneezes. She tuts lowly, the only sign she even remembers his presence. He hisses, circling his given ground, craning to see what sliver of outside life is available to him. A blackbird wings by the window, a flicker of feathers. He drops back to his heels and sighs. 

A light knock alerts the cottage occupants to visitors and he eyes the door with interest. She moves to open it and the child bounces happily, hugging the local witch around the waist as she babbles joy at the health of her pet kitten. Crowley crouches and flicks his tongue at her and she gasps, staring around his captors legs. The witch ushers her out as he relaxes his usual focus on his eyes, allows the yellow to pool and expand as she watches in awe. The girl is sent off with a promise to visit and a treat in her hand and Crowley receives a flick of gathered rainwater from the witch in chiding irritation. He snaps back, hissing but she’s already moved on. 

As the sun moves across the sky, he tracks the measure of the day by its path across the aged floorboards and by the growing pile of poultices the witch crafts. He eyes the bucket of gathered rainwater jealously and hisses pointedly. She turns on his third hiss, swaying her pestle warningly with a frown and follows his gaze to the bucket. She raises an eyebrow and he gives her his best innocent look. She snorts and returns to her work. He scuffs his foot uselessly at the edge of the sigils and returns to pacing until he hears her clearing her throat. He looks over, exuding boredom and finds a water-skin and an apple tossed at his chest. He catches them both, baring his fangs at her. She scoffs and gathers her wares, shrugging on her coat. He sniffs the opened water-skin warily, just in case, watching her all the while. She gives him a dismissive wave as she closes the door behind her and he almost chokes on the water at the domesticity of it. 

The sun continues to arc across the floor as he folds himself into a sitting position and laps at the juices of the apple. He trickles what is left of the water at the edges of his ethereal boundary, even knowing it will do no good. He lowers himself before it, willing it to run into the charred and indented wood, blowing it onwards. The damp seeps into the wood, unable to wash away a carving. He sighs and stretches out as far as he is able. 

She returns after the sun has vanished from his view, candlelight leading her way. He blinks in the dim light, slow and deliberate and she smiles wearily as she shrugs off her coat. The cottage is small, her bed tucked away in the rear of the place. He flicks his apple core at her and she lifts it and drops it outside with only a grumble at her poor back. As she sheds herself of her remaining wares and pulls herself to bed he gives a pitiful whine, scratching at his wooden floor. She says nothing but a woven blanket is bundled and tossed at his face. He shifts and coils under it with no further protest. 

The night passes peacefully as they both slumber. 

She wakes early, too early and he groans. He flicks the woven threads away from himself, watching tiredly as they fall atop the runes, hiding them from view. He entertains the brief notion that they don’t exist at all until she picks the blanket up, folding it back where it belongs. She rolls a ceramic jar into his reach and he coils around, hooking his fangs beneath the lid as he pops it off. He hisses in satisfaction, twisting to look at her and she chuckles obligingly at his success. He drops the lid and hangs his fangs over the edge, leaking venom into the jar until he’s bored. He rears back when his jaw begins to ache, snapping at the air to loosen the muscles and he unwinds from around the jar and shifts back into a form with hands. 

She startles as the sealed jar rolls against her heel and picks it up carefully, hefting the weight in her hands. He yawns and falls backwards, closing his eyes against the morning. 

He rouses when another visitor taps against the door and pulls himself to a seating position as she dusts her hands off and goes to answer. He only half-listens as the man at her door lists his wife’s ailments, distracted by the outdoors he can see between the forest of their legs. He groans when the door closes, lying upon his belly and staring accusingly up at her as she closes out the world. He pushes himself back to his knees as she potters around, gathering things here and there. He picks at a loose splinter of wood. 

There’s a clatter, a gasp as she drops a pot, its contents spilling as it rolls into his vicinity. He pounces on it gleefully, pulling it into his little piece of her home. “Now stop that,” she scolds, “Matilda needs this cure. Give it back.” He hunches over the tipped pot and hisses. She frowns at him, folding her arms. They glare at each other for several moments before she gives up and blinks. He chirps in victory. “I will need that back,” she scolds, turning to retrieve a different pot. He pushes handfuls of the crushed herb towards the carvings while her back is turned, disappointed when the filling doesn’t negate their runic hold on him. “Now what are you – oh, _really_ now,” she barks and he shrinks regretfully. She glares at him and he whines, pushing the pot and it’s remaining contents so that they roll back out of his circle and into her reach in apology. She sighs. 

He dares a glance up at her and she isn’t reaching for her spell-book or the holy water hanging by the door so he relaxes and sits back up. He flicks the remaining herbs around the inside of his circle. 

“I need a feather,” she tuts as she finishes up her mix and he hisses at her back, recoiling. She looks over her shoulder and raises an eyebrow. He shudders his wings into existence before she can make him, huddling them around himself. “Come now,” she encourages and because she asks him for one at a time and doesn’t pin him in place and harvest him at her leisure, he reaches out and plucks the requested feather, shivering at the loss. He runs it through his fingers as she watches, letting it flutter to the ground before blowing it across the divide. She lifts it from the floor, brings it to her work table and he mantles his wings around himself so he needn’t see how she uses it. 

The day passes quietly. 

The clouds cover the sun and he gets a glimpse of the outdoors as the man returns for his poultice before the door closes back upon him. He hisses and curls in on himself as he lies on his side, splaying his curved wing over top to hide himself. She tries to ask him a question but gives up when he doesn’t care to listen. 

He zones out until his wing begins to ache and he rolls back onto his front, banishing the limb and its partner back to the ether. She’s sitting in the candlelight, reading as the sun continues to sink. He watches her quietly. As she goes to move her page, her gaze flicks over to him and their eyes meet. He makes an effort to pull his pupils back into the closest approximation of humanity he can manage. She looks back to her book but she begins to softly read aloud. He looks away and pretends not to pay attention. 

He’s given his blanket again at night and tempts more water from her in the morn. He doesn’t need it, really but it’s something different. He gives her another feather and cranes his neck to watch the odd bird flit by the window. 

A fellow witch comes to visit her from the next town over and he retreats to the back of the circle, fangs bared. They eye him warily, trying to instruct her in reliable containment. She fairly retorts that she holds a demon while they do not, seeking the venom he provides her for their own work. He shudders as they debate the value of his gathered venom, his fangs aching in imagination of how this other witch would gather it from him. For once, the visiting witch gathers her courage and asks for feathers. He shifts before he can think, striking at the barrier as she yelps and darts for the door. His captor follows her out, shaking her head at him in admonishment. He spits and coils, defensive. 

When she comes back in alone, he braces himself. She doesn’t demand any feathers but he watches her for the rest of the day. 

As night encroaches she retrieves his blanket but he leaves it be, his eye on her as she slumbers in sleep, more than aware of the spell book sitting quietly in the corner. 

The days pass. 

She watches him from her chair, book lain across her lap. He stares at the ceiling. 

_Aziraphale,_ he whispers in his mind, _Aziraphale_. 

“You’re a very calm demon,” she tells him softly. 

_You’re not_ _torturing me_ , he doesn’t say. _It could be worse,_ he can’t tell her. 

The nights pass as well. 

There’s a knock on her door and he settles himself for a glimpse of the outside. The world filters through their legs as she opens the door and a determined voice commands, “ _Sleep_.” 

The visitor catches her as her legs fold and Crowley forgoes his sight of the outdoors to snap his attention to the intruder. _Aziraphale,_ he breathes, scrambling to his feet. The angel leans her against the wall, eyes scanning him. He grins dopily back, freedom whispering in his ear. 

“Whoever heard of a demon praying,” Aziraphale greets softly, Crowley’s heart thundering at the acknowledgment. _It works._ **_It works._ ** The angel drifts closer, scanning the binding circle shrewdly. He wraps a miracle around his little circle, makes sure it won’t collapse in such a way to cause any feedback and snaps. The wood groans and the realisation crashes over Crowley as the smothering ethereal blanket falls away. _Free. Free._ “Free,” he gasps, startling at the sound of his own voice. Aziraphale steps closer to him, fussing over him as he breaks into shivers. “Angel, her book,” he breathes, twisting to stare at the dreaded thing. Aziraphale follows his gaze, snaps his fingers. The book vanishes into mist as he watches. He would ask if Aziraphale took it for his own but he really doesn’t care. 

He starts pushing past the angels shoulder, captivated by the outside now the immediate threat is gone. Aziraphale follows him outside as he presses past an invisible barrier that no longer stands, catches him by the elbow and helps support him as he almost topples back, head tilted endearingly up at the sky. 

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale presses carefully. Crowley turns to stare at him, face splitting into a grin. 

“You came,” he notes, “I prayed to you and you came.” As Aziraphale begins to melt, fondness in his eyes, Crowley hums. “You realise I’m going to be bothering you all the time now,” he cackles, the light of freedom in his expression, “You’ve went and given the game away, angel.” 

Aziraphale shakes his head, his lips pursing as he tries to hide his amusement. “Yes, well,” he sighs put-upon, “no doubt you’ll cry wolf.” Crowley looks back at the sky, delighting in the clouds. “I’ll still come,” Aziraphale murmurs in his ear and Crowley jumps, “if I can. I’ll always answer, Crowley.” 

He pretends not to have heard even as some small pit of hope buries deeply into his inner self. 

The sky is so very beautiful today. 


End file.
